


When You Eliminate The Impossible

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Fantasy, Husbands, M/M, Sussex, alternate first meeting, sadJohn, xmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9212984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Lonely John goes to a cottage in Sussex for a solitary Xmas.  Then a stranger appears.  Maybe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a little bit of fluff for Xmas. Then a week away, 10 days of the nasty cold/crud that is going around, and planning for a trip to London all conspired to delay it. Also the fact that the little bit of fluff grew into…well, a longer piece of fluff. But maybe these days a pile of fluff is not such a bad thing?
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy.

…whatever remains, no matter how  
improbable, must be the truth  
-Arthur Conan Doyle

 

1

 

The room was quiet.

Except, of course, for the ticking of the long-case clock that stood in the far corner of the office. It was a very nice piece, maple, he thought, and kept well polished, but it did tick-tock very loudly.

One day he meant to ask her why she kept a clock that made such a racket and if other of her…clients? patients?...were also bothered by it. Although that would mean actually speaking to her, so perhaps not.

Not that they never spoke, of course. That would have been rather ridiculous. She asked questions and he answered. Sometimes. John occasionally wondered if he would have made better use of the time had the cost been on him. Which was also ridiculous, because if the therapy were not mandated and paid for, he wouldn’t be here at all. 

Now she glanced down at the ever-present notebook. “Have you reconnected with your sister at all, John? Harriet, right?”

Well, the first thought he had was that Harry would likely deck her for using that name. Especially if his sister had been drinking, which was pretty much a sure thing in recent years. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he thought for a moment before saying anything at all. It never paid to blurt things out in front of a shrink, he’d learned the hard way . She took notes and would bring up out of nowhere something he had said two weeks earlier, expecting him to explain what he’d meant. How the hell was he supposed to know what anything meant these days?

“Well,” he said finally, “the word ‘reconnect’ implies some degree of connection in the first place, doesn’t it?” He was sitting very straight in the chair, one hand on his knee, the other still clutching the damned cane. “We don’t get on. Never have.”

She jotted something into the notebook. “What about some of your friends from before your deployment?”

He sighed. “You mean my old rugby mates? Or my uni classmates? Maybe the girls I dated?” 

She raised a brow.

John barely kept himself from sighing again. Too many sighs were seen as negative. “Everyone has moved on. They have lives and families. No one wants a ghost from the past appearing at their door. Especially a broken ghost.” That was much more than he had intended to say; more than he ever intended to say.

At least she had the good sense to move on from that topic. “The holidays are coming. Do you have plans, John?”

He glanced at the noisy clock. The hour was nearly over, thank god.

Could she really care about something as unimportant as what he was doing at Xmas? He rather thought not. What she really wanted to hear was that he was making an attempt at having a normal life. An attempt at moving beyond the war and his memories of it.

He almost wished that she would go back to asking about whether or not he still kept his gun in the desk drawer. The fact of its existence was one of those things he had let slip at his first appointment. He did not believe she would turn him in because of the weapon, but at the same time, she would never forget he had it.

He smiled at her, but she did not seem to find that very reassuring. “Plans? You mean like hanging my stocking and waiting for Father Christmas to show up?”

She looked at him for a moment and then closed the notebook. “Should I even bother asking about your blog?”

“How about this for an idea,” John said pleasantly. “If anything worth thinking about or writing about ever happens to me, I promise to write it down. Until then, let’s just assume that I have done nothing with my blog.”

She just nodded and looked at the clock. “Well, John, I think that is enough for the day.”

Enough? Far more than enough, in his opinion. And yet at the same time it was absolutely nothing.

John pushed himself out of the chair and limped from her office.

 

It was a pleasant enough day, albeit chilly, so John decided to walk a bit to save his Oyster card. Besides, anything was better than going to just sit in his horrid little room where a gun rested in the desk drawer. As he walked, made aware by Ella’s words, he could not ignore the signs of the approaching holiday season in the shop windows.

With deliberation, he ignored both the cheery decorations and the crowds of people. Instead, he walked through a barren, war-torn landscape alone, seeing blood, hearing the sounds of battle rather than the noise of London traffic, waiting for the shot that would bring him down and ruin his life.

Finally, he found himself standing at the entrance to Russell Square Park. It might be nice, he mused, to take this route home. It would be longer, but more pleasant to walk through a landscape that might not be as jarringly loud and crowded.

But then he changed his mind and kept walking. Maybe he would stop at Tesco instead and buy something to eat.

 

He ended up buying only an apple, but once back in the room decided that he wasn’t hungry after all. Most of the evening was spent staring at the computer screen. Finally he powered down and checked that the gun was still right where it belonged.

Then John went to bed. Another day gone.

Nothing ever happened to him now but nightmares and maybe one day he would just give up and write about them on the damned blog.

See how Ella liked that.

**

 

 

 

2

 

It was bloody annoying that when John woke up the next morning, with the fragments of his dreams vanishing like the smoke of an exploded IED, he found himself thinking about what Ella had said during their session.

The holidays were indeed approaching and all of a sudden John wished that he _did_ have plans for Xmas.

Last year, of course, he had been at the base in Afghanistan. It was a particularly bad spell, with casualties arriving everyday and the medical team stretched and stressed. Someone had, perhaps ironically, draped a few strands of tinsel here and there around the mess tent and a few people had cello-taped Xmas cards from home up as well.

Xmas lunch was good. Someone passed around a bottle of really fine whisky and even though each person only got a swallow, it felt good going down. John could have done without the badly sung carols, but he supposed they were mostly harmless. He ended up snogging one of the nurses behind the tent and it might have gone farther [it was Xmas after all] but then a transport convoy arrived, crowded with more casualties, and the holiday was over.

Now sitting at his desk to drink a cup of tea, John gave a bitter half-smile at the realisation that last year had not even been the worst Xmas of his life.

During his childhood, the holidays were always a fraught time for the Watson family. Too much alcohol flowing, too many calls upon an always- tight budget, so much pressure to be jolly. By Boxing Day things had generally either exploded or imploded and John would be shut in his tiny bedroom trying not to breath too loudly so everyone would forget he was there.

After leaving home for uni and then medical school, John never went back for Xmas. Sometimes, feeling a vague sense of guilt, he would ring. Most often no one would answer and he would hang up in relief.

Then he was off to the RAMC and war, so the holidays were always spent someplace far away from the battlefield that was his family home. Now everyone was dead and gone, save Harry, who might as well have been for all the contact they had.

Given that history, John was annoyed that somehow the holidays had unexpectedly taken on a sense of importance to him. Damn Ella anyway.

John finally remembered to pick up his mug again and belatedly realised that the tea inside had gone cold while his thoughts meandered. Sighing, he stood and made himself a fresh cup.

When he was in front of the computer again, he found himself typing the words Holiday Breaks.

Google did not disappoint.

There were far too many listings and it took only a few moments for him to realise that most were too expensive, even if he were willing to eat nothing but beans on toast into February. He leaned back in the chair and sipped some tea.

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

John almost dropped his RAMC mug, which would have annoyed him. It was the first time anyone had knocked on the door in all the weeks he had lived in the room. He set the mug onto the desk carefully and went to open the door.

A man in uniform stood there. “Captain John Watson?” he asked briskly.

“Used to be,” John replied.

“This is for you, then, sir,” the sergeant said, holding out an envelope.

John preferred to limit his contact with officialdom these days, well aware that it rarely led to anything good. [He had still been in the rehab facility when a different sergeant turned up and handed him his separation papers that meant he was no longer a member of her majesty’s army.] But this envelope just dangled there in mid-air and the man seemed determined to see it properly delivered. So finally John took it gingerly and nodded in gratitude that he didn’t really feel. The sergeant turned on his heels and disappeared down the stairs.

John went back to his chair, dropped the envelope on the desk, and picked up his tea once again. Were they evicting him from this room? As horrid as it was here, he had nowhere else to go as of yet. After a few moments, he picked up the envelope and ripped it open. The letter inside was brief and to the point.

_A recent audit of your former unit’s paymaster records show that in several instances, your own included, the payments received were mistakenly short of the correct amount. The shortfall has now been corrected and the enclosed cheque represents the money due. We are sorry…blah blah blah…_

He reached into the envelope again and pulled out the buff-coloured cheque. The amount made him blink.

Of course, the smart thing to do would have been to use the amount for a deposit on a flat somewhere. But without a job, he would not be able to keep up the rent. So instead of being practical, he would do something else.

Something ridiculous and impulsive. And something entirely un-John Watson-like.

He turned back to the computer and the listings for Holiday Breaks.

**

 

 

3

 

John caught an early afternoon train out of Victoria on 23 December, headed for Sussex. He changed trains at Winchester for the Downs. As promised, a car met him at the Amberly station.

As far as he could recall he’d never been to Sussex before, which suited him nicely, because that meant there would be no memories of the place to mar his getaway. Maybe he could even leave the rest of his memories [nightmares] behind in London as well. Although he was not very confident of that.

When he started looking for a place to spend Xmas, John had no idea what he really wanted. On a whim, he started checking out country house hotels offering Festive Holiday Breaks. But as he read in more detail what was on offer---jolly entertainments, shared lavish meals with harp music in the background, games, a visit from Father Xmas…on and on---John shuddered. Not what he was looking for at all.

Just as he was about to give the notion up as a very bad idea, another ad caught his eye. This was not exactly a hotel, but a small cottage set on a large estate. The main house indeed was operating as a hotel and had the whole Xmas break thing going, but the cottage was far enough away to be private. The kitchen would be stocked with the basics for simple meals and Xmas lunch itself would be delivered, but beyond that he would have no contact with anyone else. 

John considered, staring at the small picture of a stone cottage with ivy around the windows and roses over the studded oak door. Faded wooden shutters framed the windows. It reminded him of…something, but what that was escaped his mind. Despite that, he could feel a sense of peace flowing through him and that was enough.

He called the number on the advertisement and it took only a few minutes to secure the place. That was most of his newly found money gone, but John found that he didn’t care. Time enough to worry about that afterwards. He needed this in ways that were impossible to explain.

 

So now here he was.

The picture in the advertisement had obviously been snapped in summer, so now the roses were gone, but the ivy was there and the rest of the front garden only looked as if it were sleeping.

John paused on the stone path leading to the door of the cottage to take a look around. There were no other buildings in sight and the only sound was that coming from several geese flying overhead. He gave a small smile before following the driver, who had insisted on carrying his duffel, into the cottage.

Inside, it was warm and cosy. A good-sized sitting room was open to the kitchen at the opposite end of the cottage. Open doors showed two small bedrooms with a bathroom between them. A fire was already burning cheerfully in an old-fashioned stove set on a plinth of well-worn bricks.

With brisk efficiency the driver gave him a tour of the cottage, including opening the door of the new Smeg refrigerator, which held more food than John had eaten in the past month. After a quick demo of the heating system and the television---‘In case you want to watch the Queen’s speech,” the driver said cheerfully---and a reminder that on Xmas Day itself his lunch would be delivered at 13:00, the man left and John was alone.

After propping his cane against the wall, John hung his coat on a hook by the door, toed off his shoes and sighed deeply. He already felt at home here.

First item on the agenda, he decided, was a nice cuppa. Inside the unpainted cupboard he found a fresh box of Earl Grey, along with the expected P.G. Tips and something green and minty. There was coffee as well. Feeling fancy, John decided on the Earl Grey. On the scrubbed wooden table he found a tin of freshly baked Xmas biscuits and he put several on a plate.

The flowery over-stuffed armchair was squishy and enveloping as he settled into it, having already turned on the nearby radio so that soft Xmas music filled the room.

For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, John Watson felt contentment. After eating one biscuit and taking several restorative sips of the tea, he returned his attention to the surroundings.

A desk and chair were pushed into one corner and a crammed bookcase sat nearby. The art on the walls were watercolours of the local area and the quilts thrown over the sofa were clearly handmade.

At last, his gaze landed on the table that sat beside the chair he was sprawled in. It held a cheerful clutter: a lamp the driver had switched on. An old painted china candy dish that held wrapped peppermints. A battered tourist guide to the area. A candle that even unlit smelled of cinnamon. And, almost hidden by everything else, was something that when he saw it made John smile just a bit.

He reached carefully over his cup of tea and around the lamp to pick up the heavy crystal snow globe. The slight chuckle that escaped him was involuntary. His mind went back to when he’d been just a child, visiting his grandmother’s bungalow on the outskirts of Dundee. Amongst the vast number of items that crowded her small sitting room there had been a snow globe and the little boy was always fascinated by it.

Inside that globe had been a replica of an old-fashioned cottage that, he realised suddenly, had looked not unlike this one. Maybe that fact explained his instant sense of familiarity and comfort. Back then, he could sit for ages, shaking the globe and watching the snow fall on the cottage. It looked peaceful and safe, unlike the Watson house, which always tended toward chaotic and loud. Someday, John pretended, he would live in a cottage like that.

Well, at least he was staying in one for a bit.

This globe, however, was different.

John turned the heavy chunk of crystal over in his hand, gave it a shake and watched, entranced as the snow clouded the figure inside.

Which, going by the translucent wings on the broad shoulders, appeared to be a most unlikely angel.

There was nothing of the blond-haired, rosy-cheeked and decidedly female image clad in white that was most often used to represent angels. [That same grandmother’s own bedroom had been home to her collection of angel figurines, so John was quite familiar with the concept.]

This angel, though, was decidedly male, wearing a dark cloak that swirled around him as the snow fell. He had a mass of dark curls and a pale face dominated by grey-green eyes. As ridiculous as it was, those eyes seemed to look right at him. Right through him.

Again and again, John shook the globe and watched the snow eddy around the angel.

By the time he finally set the snow globe down onto the table again, it was dark outside and the fire needed tending. John did that, closed the curtains, and heated the shepherd’s pie from the fridge for his dinner. He treated himself to some of the whisky he’d brought along as he listened to a Xmas play on the radio.

And for a reason he did not quite understand, when he went into the bedroom, the globe went along. He set it on the nightstand beside the bed and settled down to sleep.

**

 

4

 

John spent a lazy morning on 24 December.

He started off by having a bit of a lie-in, not because there was absolutely nothing for which to get out of bed as had happened not infrequently of late, but just because it felt good to be in the very comfortable bed under a warm duvet. When he finally did stir, he fussed over making breakfast, lingering over his eggs, bacon and toast while reading a copy of the Guardian that had appeared at his door. Even cleaning the kitchen afterwards was a pleasure when compared with using the [highly illicit] hotplate he kept hidden in the wardrobe at his digs.

And then, because the large old claw-foot tub was so much nicer than the plastic shower stall that was his norm, John indulged in a long soak.

He giggled, feeling a bit like Cinderella must have felt when she was plucked from the monotony of her daily life and told that she would be going to the ball. They both knew that it wouldn’t last, but what a pleasure while it did.

Finally, as his fingers and toes were beginning to wrinkle, he stepped from the tub and reached for the large towel warming on the rack. Of course, he realised, for Cinderella, it had lasted forever after because she met Prince Charming. The analogy seemed to rather fall apart at that point.

By then, it seemed time for a cup of tea and some more biscuits. A browse through the crowded bookcase provided a battered copy of The Hobbit, which he had not read in years, so with that and his tea, he settled again into the comfy over-stuffed armchair. Radio One played softly in the background.

It was all rather perfect, but by mid-afternoon, he was ready to move a bit and get some fresh air, so he bundled up, grabbed his cane, and set off to explore the extensive grounds. Distant voices led him to think that some of the guests staying in the big house had also been lured outside by the sunshine. Despite the bright sky, it was cold and a persistent wind from the east hinted at a change in the weather.

John stuck to the more distant paths and despite the voices, managed to avoid seeing anyone else. After walking around for almost two hours, he found himself at the edge of the property. He sat for a while on the old stone wall and looked across the fields to a distant dark and hulking mansion. The shadows were beginning to turn to darkness. He was chilled and tired, but it was a good kind of tired and he didn’t even mind the few snowflakes that landed on him as he walked back to the cottage, taking a much more direct route.

Once inside, he built up a fire and then changed the outdoor clothes for his pyjamas and a warm robe that had been hanging on the bedroom door, adding thick socks.

Hungry after all the exercise, he heated up some gammon and potatoes and ate it in front of the telly while watching Love, Actually. As he poured an after-dinner whisky, John got a bit meditative and wondered if h might be feeling lonely.

It was not something he usually gave much thought to, because John Watson was basically a practical man and dwelling on things like loneliness or the desire for something as ephemeral as companionship seemed a waste of time.

But it was Xmas Eve. He was alone in this lovely cottage and as he closed the curtains on the more heavily falling snowflakes, he did allow himself a moment of melancholy that there was no one with whom he could share the whisky, the crackling fire, the peaceful night.

Instead of watching the next film up, something he’d never heard of that was billed as a rollicking holiday comedy, he switched the radio back on, just as music from The Nutcracker began.

Just in case he wanted a second glass [or a third] John put the whisky bottle on the table and settled into the chair again. Would be lovely to have a chair like this in his room. Wouldn’t fit, of course, but still…it would be nice.

Just after pouring that second glass [or maybe it was the third] John reached over and picked up the snow globe. He stared at the odd figure inside for several moments. “Well, Happy Xmas to you anyway,” he said softly.

He sipped the whiskey and gave the globe a shake, watching as the snow swirled around the angel with the green eyes.

**

 

5

John had absolutely no idea what time it was when an explosion shocked him into wakefulness. For a few seconds, he just huddled there in the chair, gasping for air, wondering where he was.

Finally, he remembered.

The cottage. The over-stuffed chair. Perhaps too much of the excellent whisky.

He took a deep, steadying breath.

There had been no explosion. The thunderous roar was only the wind outside the cottage.

After another moment, John finally stood, a bit shakily. First things first. He added wood to the stove and stirred up the fire. Then, still not fully awake, he shuffled over to the window and peered out. “Bloody hell,” he said hoarsely.

The feathery snowfall from his walk had turned into what looked like a full-blown blizzard, the likes of which he had not seen in years. His first thought was to wonder if his promised Xmas lunch would arrive. Not that he would starve if it didn’t, there was plenty of food here, but he’d been looking forward to the special meal.

Tea, he decided after a glance at the far-too-empty whisky bottle. A good hot cuppa was just what he needed.

As he headed for the kitchen, the little cottage seemed to shiver a bit on its very foundation under the onslaught of the wind.

He made an extra-strong cuppa, using an idea from his time in a warzone, and adding two bags. Sometimes caffeine was all that saw you through.

With the hot mug in his hand, he went back to the window and watched the storm by the pale light of a scarcely visible moon that kept disappearing behind the clouds. Perhaps he was not quite awake yet, because his next thought was rather whimsical, which was not common for him.

_It’s like the snow globe come to life._

He smiled over the top of the mug.

It was fine. Not as if he had somewhere to go. And if the roast turkey, parsnips, and pudding with brandy butter didn’t arrive on time, he would have cheese on toast and more biscuits.

At first, he thought what he was seeing was only a shadow caused by a cloud moving across the faint yellow glow of the moon. But it did not vanish. Instead, it moved closer, took on form. John blinked. He took a large swallow of the tea, burning the roof of his mouth, and blinked again.

Not a shadow, then. A very human form was, for some insane reason, moving through the dreadful storm, apparently moving towards the fragile light of the cottage.

John set the mug down on the ledge and rushed for the door, pulling it open just as the figure reached the cottage. Without saying a word, the man simply burst through the door.

And then he collapsed.

For just a moment all John could do was stare at the tall man with ice-coated wild curls and the snowy dark coat. Finally, the doctor [and maybe the soldier] side of John Watson kicked in.

He dragged the limp form out of the way and slammed the door closed against the cold wind. Then John quickly stripped the coat off the stranger, before untying and removing the hopelessly inadequate shoes. The silk socks were dripping wet, so he removed those as well. The woollen trousers were next, then the jacket. The skin of the man was just on the edge of turning blue.

Finally, using skills that had once been as natural as breathing, John bent to hoist the much larger man onto his shoulder and carried him into the closest bedroom, before dropping him onto the bed. 

Then he stood there, staring at the stranger who had come out of the snow.

 

6

 

John didn’t know how long he stood there just watching the other man, who had stopped shivering but still showed no sign of opening his eyes. But his breathing was steady and John had a feeling that he was actually conscious, but not ready yet to face the world.

Finally, John went into the kitchen to put the kettle on yet again. As he passed through the sitting room, he deliberately did not even glance towards the table where the bloody snow globe sat. That way, he felt sure, lay madness.

As the kettle heated, he decided to also make a couple of sandwiches using the cold gammon left from his dinner. Because there was far too much to think about that he was not yet ready to contemplate, John kept his mind firmly focussed on cutting bread, spreading butter and mustard, then layering gammon slices. It was as he was setting the food and tea on the table that John realised he was no longer alone. He turned to see his [uninvited] guest standing there, wrapped in the quilt from the bed.

The dark curls were drying in a riotous mess and his face was much less bluish than it had been. It was, in fact, porcelain white now, but John had the feeling that was its natural state and not a sign of anything worrying.

“Sit,” John said in his doctor voice. Or maybe his captain voice.

Whichever, the man shuffled over to the table and sat down.

John sat as well. He poured two cups of the steaming hot tea, into one of which into he had also added two spoonsful of sugar, and pushed a plate with one sandwich towards the man. “Eat.”

The expression on the angled face was disdainful, but after a moment he picked up the sandwich and took a small bite.

“My name is John Watson and I have some questions.”

After a second, somewhat larger, bite and a careful sip of the tea, the man spoke. “Of course you have questions, doctor.” The voice was deep and melodious. Something almost like a smile [or maybe a smirk] touched his lips. “Obviously you are a doctor.” His brow wrinkled. “But there is something…” He stared at John.

It felt, oddly, as if he were being x-rayed.

“Oh, of course, a military doctor.” His gaze shifted fleetingly to the cane propped against the counter. “Injured. Fading tan lines. Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“What?” John blinked at him.

“Iraq or Afghanistan?” The words were clipped, obviously from irritation that the speaker had to repeat himself.

“Afghanistan,” John snapped. “And who the fuck are you anyway?”

After one more bite of the sandwich, the man almost smiled again. “The name is Sherlock Holmes. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

John shook his head.

“I have a blog,” Holmes said a bit petulantly.

“Well, so do I. Have you ever heard of me?”

They glared at one another for a moment, until both men seemed to realise the absurdity of the situation. John couldn’t help a small giggle and Holmes ducked his head to hide a smile.

They both drank tea in silence for a few moments. John shot a glance back towards the sitting room and the table that held the snow globe. It was much better not to mention the odd fancy that had seized his mind upon first seeing his unexpected guest coming out of the snow. Holmes would undoubtedly think him quite mad.

And thinking of madness…

“What,” he began, “were you doing walking around in the middle of a blizzard, Mr Holmes? Especially dressed like you were strolling through Mayfair?”

“Sherlock, please, John. And technically not a blizzard,” Sherlock said with a certain prim propriety. “A blizzard actually requires---”

“Yes, yes, all right, Professor,” John interrupted. “Not a blizzard. A fucking snowstorm. Whatever you call it. Still not appropriate for taking a walkabout on Xmas Eve.”

“Xmas Eve? Is it?”

John just stared at him.

Sherlock sighed with what he probably supposed sounded like endless patience. “I am on a case.”

John probably should not have snorted. “So, not a professor. Holmes of the Yard, are you?”

A lesser man might have been intimidated by the glare. “God, of course not.” Sherlock seemed appalled by the very idea. “I am a consulting detective. The only one in the world.” His shoulders straightened just a bit. “I invented the job.”

“I see.” John nodded and poured them both more tea. “No, actually,” he said then. “I don’t see at all.”

“Are you aware of how incompetent the actual police are? When they are even more than usually out of their depth, they come to me.”

“Really?” John wondered for a moment if he were still asleep and dreaming this whole thing. That actually seemed like the most rational explanation for what was happening. It seemed very definitely likely. Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you real?”

“Excuse me?” Now Sherlock was eyeing him as if he also thought that John had lost his mind.

“There’s this snow globe,” John said. “And then you came out of the snow and you look like…” His words dwindled off. “Never mind.” He finished his sandwich slowly and then took a deep breath. “So what is the world’s only consulting detective doing wandering around darkest Sussex in a snowstorm on Xmas Eve?’ he asked finally.

After giving him one more dubious look, Sherlock pushed his plate and the half-finished sandwich away, leaning forward eagerly. “Blackmail!” he announced, sounding as pleased as if he’d been proclaiming that Father Xmas himself had just popped down the chimney.

John just nodded encouragingly.

“In my opinion, John, blackmailers are the lowest of the low. And Milverton is the worst of the species.”

“I see,” John said, although he was not sure exactly what he saw. “And this Milverton is in the woods, is he?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. Then, at John’s offended look, he waved a hand. “Don’t take it personally. Everyone is an idiot, but I can already tell you are less so than most.“ He paused, as if waiting for John to acknowledge what was apparently meant as a compliment, no matter how backhanded.

John gave a small nod.

That seemed to satisfy Sherlock. “Milverton lives at the house neighbouring this one.”

John nodded, remembering the massive residence he’d seen during his walk earlier.

“I was on my way there but my hire car got stuck in a snow drift. I thought I could finish the journey on foot, but…” Sherlock shrugged. It was obvious that he did not like to admit failure.

“You were rather lucky I was here,” John pointed out, not necessarily in response to the ‘idiot’ comment.

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment, then his lips twitched. “Indeed.” was all he said.

John leant back in the chair and crossed his arms across his chest. “Do you have some kind of plan for what to do if you actually find the blackmailer? Is he violent?”

“Most blackmailers are cowards. At any rate, my intention is not to encounter Milverton. It is merely to gain access to his safe and retrieve certain DVDs in his possession. Said DVDs are extremely compromising to a certain titled woman highly placed in the government.

“And Scotland Yard is letting you handle this case?” John knew he sounded sceptical.

Sherlock just waved it off. “They aren’t that intelligent, sadly. But this particular case was brought to me by a person even more highly placed in the government. The yard never came into it.” His tone was sour. 

“How will you get in?”

Sherlock smirked.

And John wondered if there were any expression at all that would not be…appealing on that somewhat odd, yet striking, face. Then he dismissed that thought immediately.

“One of the cleaners has left a side door unlocked for me. Then it's just a matter of getting the DVDs out of the safe.”

John quirked a brow at him.

Sherlock shrugged. “I may have met her in the pub a few times. She seemed amenable.”

“You pretended to be interested in her, didn’t you?”

Sherlock adjusted the quilt around his torso again. “Why do you assume that I was pretending?” He sounded genuinely curious.

John had no answer for that.

“Of course I was pretending,” Sherlock said brusquely. “Not my type at all.”

“Do you have a type?” John asked. Immediately he regretted the question.

“Is that relevant?”

John could feel the heat rise in his face. “No, of course not. Sorry.”

Sherlock seemed more amused than irritated as his gaze moved over him..

“So,” John said, wanting to move on rather quickly, “your whole plan is to get in to the house, steal the DVDs--- and by the way safecracking is amongst your skills?---and then leave?”

“Simplicity is best in these circumstances,” Sherlock said, sounding ridiculously pompous.

John only nodded.

There was a moment of silence, during which John realised that the wind was no longer roaring outside. He glanced at the small window over the sink and saw that the snow had stopped and the moon was out.

Again, John thought of the silly snow globe and its odd angel in the flowing cloak. But he still said nothing about it. After all, what could he say and not sound like a madman?

After another moment, Sherlock stood. “I am already much later than I intended to be. I need to get dressed and go or the opportunity will be lost.” He turned around and went back into the bedroom.

John stayed where he was.

When Sherlock emerged again, clad in his still damp clothing, he picked up his coat, then turned to look at John. “Thank you, John Watson,” he said quietly.

What John wanted to say was that the other man’s shoes were still entirely unsuited to a walk in the snow, but what came out was, “Happy Xmas.” A stupid thing to say, of course, but better than some of the words that were rolling around in his mind.

Sherlock gave a nod and another sort of smile, turned and left the cottage.

It was only two minutes before John stood. Now he went into the bedroom himself. He pulled the duffel out from under the bed and reached beneath the extra jumper kept there to pull out his highly illegal weapon.

In another minute, he had donned his boots, coat and gloves. He tucked the pistol into a pocket and finally tugged a knit cap over his hair.

Then he went out into the night and followed the trail of Sherlock Holmes’ footsteps in the snow.

 

7

 

It was crisply cold and there was too much damned snow on the ground, but the sky was clear and a soft silver moon shone down over everything.  
Despite the icy chill and the effort it took to move through the snow, John could not help feeling a sense of…excitement? Drama? Something anyway.

And it had been so long, too bloody long, since John H. Watson had felt anything other than despair or anger, that he grabbed hold of whatever this was, determined not to let it go until he had to. At the same time, he carefully pushed aside the unexpected feelings that had lurked just under the surface when he had been talking to and looking at the improbable stranger named Sherlock.

Even without the guidance of the footsteps he was following, John knew where he was going: the same place his walk earlier had ended, namely the stone wall that separated this property from the one apparently occupied by a repellent blackmailer.

When he reached the wall, the neighbouring house was only a dark hulking shape in the distance. Without a pause, if a bit awkwardly, John climbed over the wall and kept moving towards the building. He had no idea what his next move would be once the goal was reached, but that was all right. Something would occur.

In the end, it was actually pretty simple. Straightforward. Still following the footprints, John just walked the perimeter of the house until he found the side door propped open a bit. Without even thinking about it, John slipped inside. The corridor was only dimly lit by a single rose-tinted sconce at the far end.

John moved slowly along the corridor, passing several open doors that led only to dark rooms, but then he came to a closed door. Very quietly, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. In the muted glow of a small torch, he was Sherlock standing in front of a wall safe, his fingers slowly turning a dial. After two turns, he muttered something under his breath.

“What kind of a man are you, John Watson, that you would follow a stranger into something like this?” he asked softly, not even turning around.

John stepped all the way into the room and pushed the door closed again. “A madman?” he suggested in a whisper. “A terminally bored man to whom nothing ever happens?” 

And then Sherlock Holmes turned his head and looked at him with an expression that was filled with…something. Promise, maybe. “A man after my own heart,” he said. “Or who might be if I possessed that particular organ.” Then he actually smiled a real smile. “Still, I find myself very glad that you are here.” And then, with a totally unnecessary, but absolutely charming, flourish, he opened the safe.

Before John could respond to that or even think of a response he might make, the silent night was shattered by the sound of what could only be an approaching helicopter.

Sherlock glanced upwards, as if he might see the thing through the ceiling. “Damn,” he said mildly. “He was supposed to be in London until Boxing Day.”

John raised a brow at him. “Or maybe your girlfriend lied to you,” he suggested.

That earned him a scowl. Then Sherlock pushed the safe door closed, but not far enough for it to lock again. When he turned around again, his expression was one of excitement. The damned copter had to be landing in the massive front garden.

“Should we make a run for it?” John suggested.

“Rather too late for that, sadly,” Sherlock said. “I would suggest the alcove,” he said, moving towards the far end of the room.

John followed. 

It was not a large alcove and when the heavy velvet drapes were drawn it was even smaller. Sherlock switched off the torch and they stood in the darkness, not quite pressed together.

Somewhere not far away a door opened and they could hear the voices of two men approaching.

“Should I stay here, sir? Since your P.A. is away?”

The other voice was unpleasantly gruff. “No, Jenkins. Take the bird back to London. I’ll be fine.”

“Very well, sir.” There were no good-byes or holiday good wishes, but only the sound of footsteps leaving the building.. A moment later, the door to the study itself opened and someone came into the room.

John realised that Sherlock had left a small gap in the drapery and was watching. By moving his head just a bit, practically resting it against Sherlock’s arm, John could also see the man now sitting behind the desk.

John did not know what he was expecting a master blackmailer to look like, but he didn’t think that it would have been the silver-haired, well-tanned man in the well-cut suit.

It seemed as if Milverton were totally engaged in the process of carefully buffing his fingernails.

John tried to reassure himself that as a professional, Sherlock undoubtedly had a plan in mind. That plan was probably ridiculously convoluted. Or, conversely, absurdly simple. Like go in, get the DVDs, leave.

Right.

He could hear the soft inhalations and exhalations of Sherlock’s breaths. His own breathing brought him a vague mix of what seemed like poncy hair products, faint touches of tobacco scented sweat, and something spicy that he could not really identify. Together, it all seemed to lull John into an almost fugue state of relaxation. Which was probably not optimal, given the circumstances.

The peace didn’t last long.

The door to the office opened suddenly and even Milverton looked surprised. Rightfully so. After all, it was Xmas [albeit very early] and there had just been a blizzard [snow storm] so it seemed to be an unexpectedly busy night in this isolated country house.

The newest intruder was a slender figure dressed into head to toe black, including the balaclava covering the face and, significantly, the gun pointed at Milverton.

Sherlock had tensed at the sight.

After his initial surprise, however, Milverton seemed intent again on his nail buffing. Shiny nails were apparently important to him. “This is a surprise,” he said after a moment. “Although the…costume is quite fetching.” If asked, John would have said that the man was bored.

“Maybe it was a mistake to give your security staff the holiday off.”

It was not until that moment that John realised that the armed intruder [well, the _other_ armed intruder, since he himself also qualified] was a woman.

“Oh, they are only an intrusion when two old friends meet, are they not,---oh, sorry, I have no idea what you are calling yourself these days, my dear.”

“You don’t need to know that.”

Milverton smiled and John was reminded a shark he’d seen once at the London Aquarium. “I find all information useful. Or at the least entertaining.”

Sherlock tilted his head just enough so that he could look at John’s face. John only gave him a WTF expression and he gave a miniscule shrug in response.

The woman suddenly gave a laugh. “You just pressed the alarm button, didn’t you? Have you forgotten how I work? It is disconnected, of course.”

John did not know when Sherlock had pulled out a phone. Now he was quietly punching in a number. Then he touched two more digits and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

“Sadly, there will be no help coming,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.

“Are we to negotiate terms, then?” Although Milverton still sounded unruffled, John could determine the stress by the way he held himself.

“No. I’m going to kill you.” And with that, she fired. The shot sounded very loud in the room. A bloody hole appeared in Milverton’s forehead and his body pitched backwards.

John quelled his immediate instinct to rush over to help. First, the man was already dead and second, there was still a madwoman with a gun standing there.

Maybe she would just leave now.

But instead, rather horrifyingly, she turned in their direction. “You might as well step out now, Mr Holmes,” she said, sounding as if she were offering tea.

Sherlock looked at John for a moment and then stepped out from behind the curtain. John stayed very still.  
“Have we met?” Sherlock asked smoothly.

“Never, sadly. But I know of you, obviously. Love the blog, by the way.”

Sherlock inclined his head regally. Moving slowly, he moved to the desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms.

The woman turned to face him, putting her back to the alcove again. “But now we have a problem, yes? I am sure you can understand.”

“Do you intend to kill me as well?”

She chuckled. “Haven’t quite decided yet. When I discovered that you were going to be here---” She clearly caught Sherlock’s unasked question. “Well, MI5 security is not what it might be. Too bad you probably won’t have a chance to tell your pompous brother about that. Anyway, when I found out about your little plan, I decided to kill two birds with one stone. If you will excuse the cliché.”

“A lazy way to communicate, but I assume you have other talents,” Sherlock said blandly.

“My employer seems to think so.”

John tried to make no sound at all as he reached into his pocket and slid the gun out. It had been months since he’d killed anyone and that fatality had been an al-Queda sniper intent on taking out a visiting member of Parliament. There had been a medal issued. But by the time it arrived, he was lying in a hospital bed and an orderly had pinned it on his hospital gown.

It was something of a surprise to realise that John knew he would not hesitate for a moment to shoot that woman if necessary to save Sherlock Holmes, a man he had only known for hours. Of course, she didn’t seem like a very nice woman.

She was now pacing a bit, the weapon never wavering from Sherlock. “See, killing you would solve some of my problems. Your brother is becoming an annoyance to my employer and then he annoys me in turn. Maybe if I broke his heart by killing his baby brother, he would have less time to make trouble.”

Sherlock gave an elegant snort. “You obviously don’t know my brother.”

Abruptly, the woman stepped forward to press the gun against Sherlock’s forehead.

It was then that John Watson moved, silently and swiftly, placing his own weapon against the back of the woman’s head. “Not going to kill my friend on Xmas,” he said mildly. “Bad form. Drop it, please.”

She thought about defying him, John could tell. But then she just let go the gun and it fell to the carpeted floor.

“What now, Sherlock?”

If Sherlock was surprised by John’s actions, he didn’t let it show. He only shrugged. “I have no interest in her. Milverton is no great loss. And she annoys my brother. Send her away.”

John was not sure that was the smart thing to do, but then they heard the sound of at least two helicopters approaching. “Go,” he said.

She turned to look at him, an icy green gaze seeming to evaluate John. He felt a bit flayed open by the scrutiny. Then she turned and ran out the door through which they had come in originally.

“We should go, too,” John said.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said. “Believe me, I have no intention of interacting with my brother’s minions. Would entirely ruin the spirit of the holiday.” Then he turned and went to the safe again. After he had removed the DVDs, Sherlock took a moment to wipe the dial. “Not that it matters in this instance,” he commented, “but it is a good habit to cultivate.”

Then he turned and gave John a smile that, in the circumstance, was not entirely appropriate. “Now we can go, John.”

And as the helicopters got closer, they ran. 

They ran out of the house as the copters began circling above and they just kept running all the way back to the cottage, not stopping until they had burst through the door.

John slammed the door closed and locked it. Then he leaned against it and looked at Sherlock. “That,” he said, “was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done.”

Sherlock propped himself against the wall next to him. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“That wasn’t just me.” John started to laugh and after a moment Sherlock joined in.

It wasn’t until a few moments later, as he was putting the kettle on that John saw his cane propped against the counter. Then he glanced at Sherlock who just looked terribly pleased with himself.

**

 

8

 

Instead of staying in the kitchen, they carried the tea and a plate of biscuits into the sitting room and sat on the sofa, in front of the fire. There was very little conversation; each man seemed lost in his own thoughts.

John had questions. Of course he did; who the hell wouldn’t?

But somehow, foolishly, he hesitated to ask this man anything because he was afraid that too many facts would break the spell and John wanted this, whatever it was, to not end.

Once he glanced sidewise from his careful observation of the old wood stove and found Sherlock’s eyes on him. There was something in the gaze, something that maybe caused a faint tingle to travel up John’s spine.

But instead of saying anything about that [what could he say?] John cleared his throat. “I want to show you something.”

Sherlock just quirked a brow at him.

John leant over far enough to reach the small table and picked up the snow globe. He set it on the sofa between them. They both just looked at it for a long moment.

“Unusual snow globe,” Sherlock finally. “Not that I am a connoisseur.” 

John ran one fingertip slowly around the crystal that felt cool against his skin.  
“When I first saw you coming out of the blizzard---snowstorm,” he corrected with a faint smile, “I thought…”

At least Sherlock did not laugh at him. “Did you?” was all he said, quietly.

“I know it’s foolish.”

Then, suddenly, another finger was tracing his path around the snow globe. “I’m no angel, John.”

“Aren’t you?” The question came out unexpectedly, then John pulled back his hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said.

John picked up the snow globe and held it in his hand. He settled back into the soft cushions of the sofa. Sherlock did the same. Their shoulders pressed together. The room was warm and only dimly lit and John realised [absurdly] that he felt quite content. He turned his head and spoke softly directly into those curls. “Tell me something.”

“What?” Sherlock whispered.

“I don’t care what,” John replied. “Anything.”

There was a pause and then Sherlock started to talk. It was an outlandish tale that had something to do with an aluminium crutch.

At one point there was a pause in the narrative and John felt the soft press of lips against his temple.

Sometime after that, he fell asleep.

 

John woke up alone.

It took him a moment to realise what had awoken him.

Then he realised that it was a polite, but insistent, knocking on the door of the cottage. With a grunt, he managed to stand up and more or less walk upright to the door. When he opened it, he found a middle-aged man holding a large hamper. “Happy Xmas, Mr Watson,” the man said cheerfully. His nametag read ‘Harold.’ “Here is your lunch, sir.”

Lunch? A glance at the sky showed him that the sun was overhead. All signs of last night’s storm were gone, save the snow left behind. Belatedly, he stepped aside to let the man in.

Once the hamper was safely in the kitchen, the man walked back to the door. “Everything else all right?” he said.

John nodded. “Fine. Everything is fine,” he said. Abruptly, he realised that the bloody snow globe was still in his hand.

For one more moment, the man stood in the doorway. “If you would like to join us at the hotel for drinks and nibbles this evening, Mr Watson, please do. We will send the Rover to collect you.”

“Thank you.”

John shut the door and walked back to drop again onto the sofa. He stared at the snow globe. At the angel inside the snowstorm. There were two cups sitting on the table and John seized on that one fact as if it were a life belt on a stormy sea.

It was proof.

He had not dreamed up Sherlock Holmes and the adventure they’d been on the night before. The angel came out of the blizzard [snowstorm, he corrected automatically] Then he smiled without a hint of humour.

The angel came out of the blizzard and for one night John Watson felt alive again.

Later, he sat down and ate some of the Xmas lunch.

Then he sat in front of the fire and drank whisky until he fell asleep again.

 

 

9

On 27 December, John left the cottage and caught the train back to London. He left a rather large gratuity for the housekeeping staff, but that was primarily because he was hoping they would somehow overlook a minor case of thievery. He knew the guilt would haunt him, but in the end he took the snow globe anyway, because he had to. If anyone ever asked, he would say that he’d accidentally broken it and disposed of the pieces because he was embarrassed.

It was rather too bad he couldn’t come up with good tales like that for his blog.

That thought put him in mind of another idea.

An idea that was so obvious he could not believe it had not occurred immediately.

As soon as he got back to the room [which he never called ‘home’ even in his own mind] he would google the hell out of one Mr Sherlock Holmes. Find the bloody blog the man claimed to have. It wasn’t until his seatmate, a plump lady in a fake fur coat, looked askance at him that John realised he had actually laughed aloud at the prospect. 

He ran from the train and just caught the Tube as the doors were starting to close, almost forgetting the cane that was stuck into the overhead luggage rack. Didn’t matter. He still didn’t need it.

Once he arrived at his destination, it took him a few seconds too long to realise that something was wrong. The lock on his door was smashed. He swore loudly, which brought out his neighbour, a pasty-faced man who looked far too young to have ever been a soldier at all. He and John had a tacit agreement to never mention the nightmares or the shouting that occurred in one flat or the other most nights.

“Watson,” he said. “Bastards got into four flats. Took my telly and all my DVDs. Millard lost his fucking medals.”

“Damn,” John said and he already knew that there had been only one thing of value in his flat.

And, unsurprisingly, the place where his laptop usually sat was empty.

John dropped onto the bed. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he said. Trying to find a job and a place to live was going to be even harder without the computer.

But even in that first moment, he realised that the worst part of being robbed was that he would not be able to look for Sherlock.

He reached into his pocket and took out the snow globe. From inside, the dark angel still stared out at him.

He was still sitting there when day slipped into night.

 

John almost skipped his appointment with Ella two days later.

After dealing with the details of the break-in and theft, he had done absolutely nothing but sit in the room and listen to Armstrong next door cursing and banging things around because he had no tv to watch. So when the day of his appointment came, he was very tempted to cancel it or just not show up. But, in the end, he shaved and put on a clean shirt; mostly because he was afraid she would notify someone in authority and he would have to deal with that.

Once he was there,they just sat and looked at one another for several endless moments.

John finally shrugged. “I was away at Xmas and someone stole my fucking laptop. So before you ask, no, I have not written anything on my blog.”

“That’s too bad, John,” she said.

He gave a twisted smile. “We can appreciate the irony, at least. Something finally happens worth writing about and I can’t.”

“What happened worth writing about?” Ella asked, making a note that he did not bother trying to read.

John opened his mouth, closed it without speaking, took a deep breath. “My flat was broken into,” was what he finally said.

Her glance was pointed. “Nothing else?”

John looked at the still-noisy clock. “I think that’s enough to be going on with, right?”

She looked distinctly unsatisfied, but he just sat back and gave monosyllabic replies to her questions about his holiday. There was no mention of snow globes or angels or adventures of any sort. Before he left the office, Ella stressed that she was always available and that he should ring her immediately if he ever felt overwhelmed. He could tell she was worried about him.

Frankly, he could understand that, because he was worried about himself.

 

He walked out of the building into what was a bright, crisp day and since he had absolutely no reason to return any time soon to his room, John decided to take the long way back. As he moved through the park, he tried to ignore the fact that he was using the damned cane again.

“John!”

He ignored the call; after all, ‘John’ was far from an uncommon name and there was no reason for anyone to be shouting for him.

“John Watson!”

Well, he supposed that shortened the odds at least a bit that the shouting was intended for him. So, reluctantly, he stopped and turned to see…Stamford…Mike, right, approaching, a big grin on his much fleshier face.

John pretended to be interested in a conversation with the man he hadn’t seen or thought of in years.

 

Less than an hour later, John took a deep breath and followed Mike into the lab at St. Bart’s not quite sure that he was ready for the promised introduction to a possible flatmate.

 

**

 

 

Epilogue

 

Sherlock was planning a surprise for John on their anniversary. After all, to reach the quarter century mark in a marriage that many of even their closest confidants would not have pegged as lasting much past the first month was surely deserving of some celebration.

At the same time, Sherlock was painfully aware that oftentimes the world found him to be a bit Too Much and it was possible that with this plan he was one [or two] steps over the line of what was considered acceptable in gift-giving.

But it was too late now. The die was cast.

Well, at least the picnic hamper from Fortnum and Mason has been delivered and was now safely stored downstairs under the protection of the elderly [though he had learned through painful experience never to use that word within her deceptively sharp hearing] and still feisty Mrs Hudson. The hire car was already parked on Baker Street.

And Sherlock Holmes was both excited and terrified.

Over their usual toast and tea breakfast, he casually said that they were going away overnight and that John should pack a bag. Which really meant that John should pack two bags, one for each of them. That was such an established routine that it never even had to be spoken aloud.

John lowered the newspaper he had been skimming through while eating breakfast and peered at Sherlock over the top of his reading glasses. “A new case? You hadn’t said.”

“Not a case, no,” Sherlock said brusquely. “Just a short trip.” He paused. “A jaunt.”

It was clear from the expression on John’s face that he was trying to remember if he had ever heard Sherlock utter the word ‘jaunt’ before. Then he smiled. “Is it an anniversary trip?”

“If that is what you want to call it.” Sherlock sometimes felt as if he had to carry on with the façade of being unsentimental, although only the general public still believed it, certainly no one who knew him well. And most certainly John knew what lay behind that chilly Holmesian façade.

“That is certainly what I want to call it.” John stood and began to clear the table.

Sherlock waved him off. “I’ll do this. You go pack.”

With a quick press of his lips to Sherlock’s hair [he claimed to love the silver strands that now danced amongst the dark curls], John headed for the bedroom. Sherlock watched him go, then finished clearing away the detritus of breakfast and quickly washed, dried, and put away everything.

He insisted to himself that he wasn’t nervous at all and kept insisting that as they walked down the stairs, collecting the hamper on the way out, and assuring Mrs Hudson that they would be careful.

Sherlock pretended not to notice as John tucked a flat square package wrapped in colourful bee paper into the boot, next to the hamper. He never tried to deduce gifts from his husband. Not that John would mind; he would just shake his head ruefully and say something like “That was bloody brilliant, you arse.” But the man was very clever about finding gifts that were so perfect that Sherlock gave himself the extra pleasure of surprise.

The journey passed mostly in the comfortable silence that had marked their relationship almost from the beginning, but at one point John saw a road sign and glanced at Sherlock. “Sussex?”

“Yes,” was all Sherlock said.

He thought John looked as if he had something more to say, but then he just turned back to the window.

Sherlock did not really look at John again until they had pulled to a stop in front of a cottage with a freshly painted blue door. The cottage sat on the fringe of what had once been a grand estate and then a hotel, until a devastating fire nearly a decade ago burned the big house to the ground. Now the area, with the exception of the two-acre plot that held the cottage, was a nature preserve.

Sherlock could not believe his luck when, just as he had hatched the idea of buying a place out of London, this property had come onto the market. His trust fund was finally able to come in handy.

John’s face was a study in…actually, Sherlock was not at all sure what that expression was saying.

“Why are we here?” John asked in a very small voice.

Sherlock’s nerves returned full force. Did John hate the countryside? Or have a secret aversion to idyllic cottages? He forced his fingers to release their death-grip on the steering wheel. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth. “I bought it,” he said softly. “The cottage, I mean. As an anniversary gift. I thought...well, one day we will retire and I just thought…”

“This particular cottage?” John’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Do you hate it?”

Instead of speaking, John leaned across the space between them and kissed Sherlock with a tenderness that was shattering. Then he pulled back just the space of a breath. “It is amazing. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.” For a long moment they just stayed as they were, breathing the same air.

“Would you like to see the place?” Sherlock asked finally. “I had it modernised and decorated.”

And John laughed. It was a soft sound that almost seemed to think about becoming a sob. “Show me our cottage,” he said.

So Sherlock took his husband’s hand and lead him on a guided tour of the cottage. The sitting room. The eat-in kitchen. A cozy bedroom and a study.

When they were back in the sitting room, Sherlock came to a stop and took John’s other hand as well. “Happy anniversary, John,” he said. “Do you like your gift?”

John nodded. “I love my gift.”

They kissed again, until John’s stomach made a sound. Sherlock gave a snort. “Lunch, I think,” he pronounced.

It was not until they had nearly finished the rather posh meal that John held out the wrapped package. “In one sense,” he said, “this pales in comparison to my gift. But…” Then he stopped talking.

Sherlock spent a moment smiling faintly at the wrapping paper and then opened the package with care. Inside was a well-worn leather folder. Embossed on the cover was a title: _The Adventure of The Snow Globe: A Sherlock Holmes Tale_.

He was accustomed to John’s storytelling, of course, and while he still mocked the results on occasion, they both knew very well that he secretly loved them. But this title rang no bells at all. “You wrote me a story?” he said; then, thinking that perhaps those words sounded a bit ungrateful, he smiled. “You know I always enjoy your overly romantic narratives,” he teased.

“This one is special,” John replied. “Why don’t you go relax on the sofa and read it while I clean up in here.”

After a moment, Sherlock nodded.

 

It was quite some time before John emerged from the kitchen, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. There was a small brown paper bag in one hand.

Sherlock gestured at him and John settled next to him on the sofa. “I like the story,” he said

“I am glad.”

Sherlock wrapped both arms around John and pulled him closer. “The cottage in your story seems very like this one.”

“It does, yes.”

“Coincidence?”

“Would have to be, wouldn’t it?” Then John reached into the bag and pulled out a snow globe, just like the one in the story.

Sherlock took the globe in his hand and studied it. He had so many questions, but this did not seem like the time to ask them. So instead, he set the snow globe down and renewed his hold on John. “I like our story very much,” he said.

Not missing the change in pronoun, John pressed a kiss to his temple.

After another moment, they both settled into the cushions more deeply and watched the sunlight slowly move across the room. At some point, Sherlock murmured, “I think maybe bees in the back garden.”

“Of course,” John said.

Sherlock closed his eyes. After a few minutes he realised that John had fallen asleep against him. 

Sherlock Holmes was not a fanciful man, but in the quiet of the afternoon he recalled his first visit to this cottage; it had been in a very rundown, abandoned state after having been empty for nearly ten years.. He remembered standing in the middle of this very room and having the sense of…something.

“Ghosts,” the idiot estate agent said. “I told you this place is reputed to be haunted.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock said to her and then he was very careful to avoid thinking about the odd feelings he’d had.

Ghosts, he thought now.

Ridiculous.

He placed a kiss on John’s cheek and looked at the snow globe as he waited for his husband to wake up.

 

FINI

**Author's Note:**

> As I write this, I am leaving for London tomorrow. Sentiment has once again overcome common sense and I will be creating Postcard Tales III. Hope you will look forward to that in a month when I am home again!


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